


The Storm Isn't Over

by stcrmpilot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Rip), (kinda?), Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hypothermia, Nonbinary Character, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, cold blooded crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: It wasunseasonably cold—that was what Aziraphale had said, before they went out. It was, they reflected, a gross understatement.





	The Storm Isn't Over

Crowley wasn't quite sure why they'd decided to come to the park, after midnight, in the middle of a storm. They were quite sure they regretted it.

It was  _ unseasonably cold _ —that was what Aziraphale had said, before they went out. It was, they reflected, a gross understatement. Ice-cold rain lashed at their exposed skin, blown nearly sideways by the wind, thousands of tiny needle-stings building to a constant, fierce burn. If they'd brought their glasses at all, they'd long since lost them in the gloom, and they could hardly stand to open their eyes against the onslaught. Every gust of wind made them stumble, brought a fresh chill to their soaked clothes. The ducks hadn't even come out to greet them.

They gritted their teeth, and gasped in a pained breath; the cold was finally starting to register, and it wasn't pleasant. Their hands and feet were quickly going numb, their blood felt like icy sludge moving through their body, leaving stabbing pains in its wake. There was a horrible, heavy ache somewhere deep inside their chest, which they would've liked to attribute to breathing too much chilly air but couldn't fool themself quite that much. They weren't capable of shivering—there was only so much a corporation could do for them, after all—and as a result they were beginning to grow extremely tired, their knees shaking with the effort of holding themself up, their heartbeat slowing dangerously. They wanted nothing more than to lie down, curl up and go to sleep.

_ Well, why not, then? _ they thought savagely, and the ache in their chest grew sharper.  _ Not like I can die. What's the worst that could happen? _

That thought made them laugh sharply, then drew a strangled noise from their throat, something that could perhaps have been a sob (except that Crowley was very sure they didn't want to cry, were not upset, and had only come out here for a bit of fresh air). See, that was the thing, wasn't it? The worst that could happen wasn't bad enough.

Their knees buckled, then, and they fell to the sodden grass, head spinning. The feeling of water soaking through their trousers and weighing down the hem of their jacket snapped them out of it; a jolt of fear that they couldn't rationalize sent fresh adrenaline rushing through their veins, and they pulled themself to their feet, standing shakily for a moment before they made off for the bookshop. They felt as if they were made of stone, exhaustion dragging at their limbs, making them stagger and trip, their every muscle trembling as they tried to stay upright. Part of them was desperate to get out of the rain, to run (or at least not fall over) until the inexplicable panic faded away. The other part, the part that hurt deep in their chest and tightened around their throat, made them sniffle between sharp hiccuping breaths (which they didn't need to take but couldn't quite prevent, oddly enough)—that part couldn't care less.

They weren't sure which they hated more.

When they finally reached the walkway in front of the store, their foot caught on the curb and they stumbled. Too tired to catch themself, they collapsed on the pavement, scraping their palms and knees in the process. A hiss of pain escaped them, morphing into a long, drawn-out sob. (Which it  _ wasn't _ , and if it was then it was out of simple frustration. Because they'd only gone out for some air.)

Then they heard a door slam, and squeezed their eyes shut in dismay. The fretful voice of Aziraphale arrived soon after.

"Oh–" He made several inarticulate noises of worry and disappointment, which Crowley could only assume were attempts to keep from swearing. "I did tell you," he said at last, unable to completely mask his concern with huffiness.

They didn't look up at him as they slowly, effortfully, stood up and struggled on towards the front door.

"You can't  _ do _ this!" he insisted, hurrying after them, hands held vaguely near them as if expecting them to keel over.

"It'sss fine, angel," they growled, and cursed their slip-up. They leaned heavily on the doorframe as they fumbled with the handle, fighting to coordinate their numb fingers.

Aziraphale opened it for them. "Quite frankly, my dear," he muttered, "I don't know what you expected to accomplish, storming out like that. Except to cause yourself a good deal of grief."

They cast a dark look back at him, and swept inside—as best they could, while trying not to fall over.

At least, they figured, sleep would come quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)


End file.
